Copyright, 1896, by Harper & Brothers. All Rights Reserved.

A VIRGINIA CAVALIER.

BY MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL.

CHAPTER I.

"Nature made Washington great; but he made himself virtuous."

he sun shines not upon a lovelier land than midland Virginia. Great rivers roll seaward through rich woodlands and laughing corn-fields and fair meadow-lands. Afar off the misty lines of blue hills shine faintly against the deeper blue of the sky. The atmosphere is singularly clear, and the air wholesome and refreshing.

Never was it more beautiful than on an afternoon in late October of 1746. The Indian-summer was at hand—that golden time when Nature utters a solemn "Hush!" to the season, and calls back the summer-time for a little while. The scene was full of peace—the broad and placid Rappahannock shimmering in the sun, its bosom unvexed except by the sails of an occasional grain-laden vessel making its way quietly and slowly down the blue river. The quiet homesteads lay basking in the fervid sun, while woods and streams and fields were full of those soft harmonious country sounds which make a kind of musical silence.

A mile or two back from the river ran the King's highway—a good road for those days, and showing signs of much travel. It passed at one point through a natural clearing, on the top of which grew a few melancholy pines. The road came out of the dense woods on one side of this open space, and disappeared in the woods on the other side.

On this October afternoon, about three o'clock, a boy with a gun on his shoulder and a dog at his heels came noiselessly out of the woods and walked to the top of the knoll. The day was peculiarly still, but only the quickest ear could have detected the faint sound the boy made, as with a quick and graceful step he marched up the hill—for George Washington was a natural woodsman from his young boyhood, and he had early learned how to make his way through forest and field without so much as alarming the partridge on her nest. No art or craft of the woods, whether of white man or Indian, was unknown to him; and he understood Nature, the mighty mother, in all her civilized and uncivilized moods.

A full game-bag on his back showed what his employment had been, but now he gave himself over to the rare but delicious idleness which occasionally overtakes everybody who tramps long through the woods. He sat down and took off his cap, revealing his handsome blond head. The dog, a beautiful, long-eared setter, laid his nose confidentially upon his master's knee, and blinked solemnly with his large tawny eyes into his master's blue ones. The boy's eyes were remarkable—a light but beautiful blue, and softening a face that even in boyhood was full of resolution, and even of sternness. His figure was as near perfection as the human form could be—tall, athletic, clean of limb and deep of chest, singularly graceful, and developed, as the wise old Greeks developed their bodies, by manly exercises and healthful brain-work and the cleanest and most wholesome living. Neither the face nor the figure could belong to a milksop. The indications of strong passions, of fierce loves and hates and resentments, were plain enough. But stronger even than these was that noble expression which a purity of soul and a commanding will always write upon the human countenance. This boy was a gentleman at heart and in soul—not because he had no temptation to be otherwise, but because he chose to be a gentleman. He sat in silence for half an hour, the dog resting against him, the two communing together as only a boy and a dog can. The sun shone, the wind scarcely ruffled a dying leaf. A crow circled around in the blue air, uttering a caw that was lost in the immensity of the heavens. The silence seemed to grow deeper every moment, when, with a quick movement, George laid his ear to the ground. To an unpractised ear there was not the slightest break in the quiet, but to the boy's trained hearing something was approaching along the highway which induced him to sit still awhile longer. It was some time in coming, for the heavy coaches in those days hung upon wide leather straps, and with broad-tired wheels made much commotion as they rolled along, to say nothing of the steady beat of the horses' hoofs upon the hard road. George's eyes were as quick as his ears, but he caught nothing of the approaching travellers until the cavalcade flashed suddenly into the sun, and with its roar and rattle seemed to spring out of the ground.

First came four sturdy negro outriders, in a gorgeous livery of green and gold, and mounted upon stout bay horses, well adapted for hard travel. Then came a magnificent travelling coach, crest-emblazoned, which would not have discredited the King's levee. It was drawn by four superb roans, exactly matched in form, color, and action. They took the road as if they had just warmed up to their work; but from the dust on the whole cavalcade it was plain they had travelled far that day. With heads well in the air, the horses threw their legs together with a style and at a gait that showed them to be of the best-blood in the horse kingdom. A black postilion in green and gold rode the off horse of the leaders, while a black coachman handled the reins. On the box, next the coachman, sat a white man, evidently a servant out of livery. One glance told that he was an old soldier. He had at his side one of the huge holsters of the day, in which he carried a pair of long horse-pistols; and a stout wooden box, upon which he rested his feet, showed that the party had means of defence had it been attacked.

George was so stunned with admiration at the splendor of the equipage that he scarcely glanced at the interior of the coach until the sunlight flashed upon something that fairly dazzled him. It was a diamond-hilted dress-sword, worn by a gentleman of about fifty, who sat alone upon the back seat. The gorgeous sword-hilt was the only thing about him that shone or glinted, for his brown travelling suit was as studiously simple as his equipage was splendid. He wore plain silver buckles at his knees and upon his handsome high-arched feet, and his hair, streaked with gray, was without powder, and tied into a club with a black ribbon.

One glance at his face fixed George's attention. It was pale and somewhat angular, unlike the type of florid, high-colored Virginia squires with which George was familiar. He had been handsome in his youth, and was still handsome, with a stately, grave beauty; but even a boy could see that this man had had but little joy in life.

From the moment that George's eyes fell upon this gentleman he looked upon nothing else. Neither the great coach nor the superb horses had any power to attract his gaze, although never in all his short life had he seen anything so splendid. His mother had a coach, and so had most of the people roundabout, but all had a common air of having once been handsome, and of having reached the comfortable, shabby-genteel stage. And many persons drove four horses to these great lumbering vehicles, but all four would not be worth one of the gallant roans that trotted along the road so gayly.

It was out of sight in a few minutes, and in a few minutes more it was out of hearing; but in that short time George, who was quick-witted, had shrewdly guessed the name and rank of the gentleman with the plain clothes and the diamond-hilted sword. It was the great Earl of Fairfax—the soldier, the wit, the rich nobleman—who for some mysterious reason had chosen to come to this new land and to build a lodge in the wilderness. The boy had often heard his mother, Madam Washington, speak of Earl Fairfax. Meeting with him was one of the events of that great journey she had made in her girlhood to England, where for a time she lived in the house of her brother, Joseph Ball, at Cookham, in Berkshire, who had left his Virginia home and had taken up his residence in England. Here Mary Ball had met Angustine Washington, then in England upon affairs connected with his property. Augustine Washington was one of the handsomest men of his day, and from him his eldest son George inherited the noble air and figure that marked him. Mary Ball was a Virginia beauty, and although admired by many Englishmen of distinction, she chose rather to marry Augustine Washington, albeit he had been married before, and had two motherless boys. In England, therefore, were they married, sailing soon after for Virginia, and within twelve years Mrs. Washington was a widow with five children. She loved to talk to her children of those happy English days, when she had first pledged herself to Augustine Washington. It had also been the only time of excitement in her quiet life, and she had met many of the wits and cavaliers and belles of the reign of George the Second. She sometimes spoke of Lord Fairfax, but always guardedly; and George had conceived the idea that his mother perhaps knew Lord Fairfax better, and the reasons for his abandonment of his own country, than she cared to tell.

He began to wonder, quite naturally, where the Earl was bound; and suddenly it came to him in a flash—"He is going to pay his respects to my mother." In another instant he was on his feet and speeding like a deer through the woods towards home.

The house at Ferry Farm which was home to him was a good four miles by the road; but by paths through the woods and fields, and a foot-bridge across a creek, it was barely a mile. It took him only a short time to make it, but before he could reach the house he saw the coach and outriders dash into sight and draw up before the porch. The old soldier jumped from the box, and opened the door and let down the steps, and the Earl descended in state. On the porch stood Uncle Jasper, the venerable black butler, in a suit of homespun, with a long white apron that reached from his chin to his knees. George saw him bowing and ushering the Earl in. The outriders loosened their horses' girths, and after breathing them, led them to the watering-trough in the stable lot back of the house. They then watered the coach horses, the coachman sitting in solitary magnificence on his box, while the old soldier stretched his legs by walking about the lot. George saw this as he came through the stableway, his dog still at his heels. Uncle Jasper was waiting for him on the back porch.

"De madam," he began, in a mysterious whisper, "will want you ter put on yo' Sunday clo'es 'fo' you come in ter see de Earl o' Fairfax. He's in de settin'-room now."

George understood very well, and immediately went to his room to change his hunting-clothes, which were the worse for both dirt and wear. It was a ceremonious age, and the formalities of dress and manners were very strictly observed.

Meanwhile, in the sitting-room, on opposite sides of the fireplace, sat Madam Washington and the Earl. Truly, the beauty that had distinguished Mary Ball remained with Madam Washington. Her figure was slight and delicate (not from her had her eldest son inherited his brawn and muscle), and in her severely simple black gown she looked even slighter than usual. Her complexion was dazzlingly fair, and little rings of chestnut hair escaped from her widow's cap; but her fine blue eyes were the counterpart of her eldest son's. The room was plainly furnished, even for the times, but scrupulously neat. A rag-carpet covered the middle of the floor, while around the edges the polished planks were bare. In one corner a small harpsichord was open, with music on the rack. Dimity curtains shaded the small-paned windows, and a great fire sparkled in the large fireplace. Over the mantel hung the portrait of a handsome young man in a satin coat with lace ruffles. This was a portrait of Augustine Washington in his youth. Opposite it was a portrait of Madam Washington as a girl—a lovely young face and figure. There were one or two other portraits, and a few pieces of silver upon a mahogany bullet opposite the harpsichord—relics of Wakefield, the Westmoreland plantation where George was born, and of which the house had burned to the ground in the absence of the master, and much of the household belongings had been destroyed.

The Earl's eyes lingered upon the girlish portrait of Madam Washington as the two sat gravely conversing.

"It was thus you looked, madam, when I first had the honor of knowing you in England," he said.

"Time and sorrow and responsibilities have done their work upon me, my lord," answered Madam Washington. "The care of five children, that they may be brought up to be worthy of their dead father, the making of good men out of four boys, the task of bringing up an only daughter to be a Christian gentlewoman, is no mean task, I assure you, and taxes my humble powers."

"True, madam," responded the Earl, with a low bow; "but I know of no woman better fitted for so great an undertaking than Madam Washington."

Madam Washington leaned forward and bowed in response, and then resumed her upright position, not once touching the back of her chair.

"And may I not have the pleasure of seeing your children, madam?" asked the Earl, who cared little for children generally, but to whom the children of her who had once been the beautiful Mary Ball were of the greatest interest.

"Certainly, my lord," answered Madam Washington, rising, "if you will excuse me for a moment while I fetch them."

The Earl, left alone, rose and walked thoughtfully to the portrait of Mary Ball, and looked at it for several minutes. His face, full of melancholy and weariness, grew more melancholy and weary. He shook his head once or twice, and made a motion with his hand as if putting something away from him, and then returned to his chair by the fire. He looked into the blaze and tapped his foot softly with his dress-sword. This beautiful, grave widow of forty, her heart wrapped up in her children, was not the girl of eighteen years before. There was no turning back of the leaves of the book of life for her. She had room now for but one thought in her mind, one feeling in her heart—her children.

Presently the door opened, and Madam Washington re-entered with her usual sedate grace. Following her was a young girl of fourteen, her mother's image, the quaintest, daintiest little maiden imaginable, her round white arms bare to the elbow, from which muslin ruffles fell back, a little muslin cap covering her hair, much lighter than her mother's, and her shy eyes fixed upon the door. Behind her were three sturdy, handsome boys of twelve, ten, and eight, as alike as pease in a pod. In those days the children of gentle people were neither pert and forward nor awkward and ashamed at meeting strangers. Drilled in a precise etiquette, they knew exactly what to do, which consisted chiefly in making many low bows to their elders, and answering in respectful monosyllables such questions as were asked them. They learned in this way a grace and courtesy quite unknown to modern children.

"My daughter, Mistress Betty Washington, my Lord of Fairfax," was Madam Washington's introduction.

The Earl rose from his chair and made the little girl a bow as if she were the Princess Royal, while Mistress Betty, scorning to be outdone, courtesied to the floor in response, her full skirt making a balloon as she sunk and rose in the most approved fashion.

"I am most happy to meet you, Mistress Betty," said he; to which Mistress Betty, in a quavering voice—for she had never before seen an Earl, or a coach like the one he came in—made answer, "Thank you, my lord."

The three boys were then introduced as Samuel, John, and Charles. To each the Earl made a polite bow, but not so low as to Mistress Betty. The boys returned the bow without the slightest shyness or awkwardness, and then took their places in silence behind their mother's chair. They exchanged keen glances, though, among themselves, and wondered when they would be allowed to depart, so that they might further investigate the coach and the four roan horses. Madam Washington spoke.

"I am every moment expecting my eldest son George; he is out hunting to-day, and said that he would return at this hour, and he is always punctual to the minute. It will be a severe disappointment to me if I should not have the pleasure of showing your lordship my eldest son."

It did not take a very acute person to note the tone of pride in madam's voice when she said "my eldest son."

"It will be a disappointment to me also, madam," replied the Earl. "I hope he is all that the eldest son of such a mother should be."

Madam Washington smiled one of her rare smiles. "'Tis all I can do, my lord, to keep down the spirit of pride, so unbecoming to all of us, when I regard my son George. My other sons, I trust, will be as great a comfort to me, but they are still of too tender years for me to depend upon." Then, turning to the three boys, she gave them a look which meant permission to leave the room. The boys bowed gravely to their mother, gravely to the Earl, and walked more gravely out of the room. Once the door was softly closed they made a quick but noiseless dash for the back door, and were soon outside examining the roans and the great coach, chattering like magpies to the negro outriders, until, having made the acquaintance of the old soldier, Lance by name, they were soon hanging about him, begging that he would tell them about a battle.

Meanwhile, within the sitting-room, Madam Washington heard a step upon the uncarpeted stairs. A light came into her eyes as she spoke.

"There is my son now going to his room. He will join us shortly. I cannot tell you, my lord, how great a help I have in my son. As you know, my step-son, Captain Laurence Washington, late of the British army, since leaving his Majesty's service and marrying Mistress Anne Fairfax, has lived at the Hunting Creek place, which he has called Mount Vernon, in honor of his old friend and comrade-in-arms, Admiral Vernon. It is a good day's journey from here, and although Laurence is most kind and attentive, I have had to depend, since his marriage, upon my son George to take his father's place in the conduct of my affairs and in my household. It is he who reads family prayers night and morning, and who presides with dignity at the foot of my table. It may seem strange to those who do not know his character how much I rely upon his judgment, and he but fifteen. Even my younger sons obey and respect him, and my daughter Betty does hang upon her brother. 'Tis most sweet to see them together." At which Mistress Betty smiled and glanced at the Earl, and saw so kind a look in his eyes that she looked at him quite boldly after that.

"It is most gratifying to hear of this, madam," replied the Earl; "but it is hardly merciful of you to a childless old man, who would give many worldly advantages had he but a son to lean upon in his old age."

"You should have married twenty years ago, my lord."

Something like a gleam of saturnine humor appeared in the Earl's eyes at this, but he only replied, dryly. "Perhaps it is not wholly my fault, madam, that I find myself alone in my old age."

At that moment the door opened, and young Washington stood upon the threshold.

[to be continued.]

[A GIRL IN TRAINING.]

BY MARY TAYLOR BISSELL.

There are three things which every girl would undoubtedly wish for if she believed they were within her reach. First, to be healthy, so that she might enjoy life with zest; second, to be graceful, for beauty's sake; and third, to be skilful, physically accomplished; and it is probable that if she knew that a certain training in life would give her these qualities she would follow it gladly.

Unfortunately there is no royal road to health or to skill any more than to learning. These are only gained by a little effort here and a little more there. It is known to every one, however, that training will do wonders in the way of improving and making over the human body.

Every girl who has a brother at college knows how ruddy and muscular and alert the college teams become when they have been in training for a season, and no one imagines that any miracle has been worked for their benefit. It is only that every man in the team is so devoted to the idea of being strong and skilful that he is faithful as the sun to the rules which regulate his eating and sleeping and exercise and bathing, so that he comes out of this so fortified that no ordinary exertion can fatigue him, and he enjoys life and its occupations with a zest which no weakling can imagine.

Of course this is the experience of men who are already healthy. Even greater differences could be shown between the condition of persons in originally poor health before and after they had adopted a suitable course of training. Now if girls of fourteen or fifteen would only agree among themselves to go into training for about four years, what fine types of young women we might hope for!

BICYCLING.

For our young American girl of fourteen or fifteen is a tall young creature, who seems for the most part to need only a little widening, and sometimes a little straightening, to give her a fine figure, and the systematic exercise and wholesome food and sleep, that are part of real training, to make her healthy.

Training does not mean exercise only, as many seem to think. It means the best sort of treatment of the body to develop and beautify and strengthen it. It means plenty of good food for bone and muscle and blood, it means plenty of sleep to keep the nerves calm and strong, plenty of pure air, and regular activity and exercise which shall be felt all over the body.

Now if this girl of fifteen or thereabouts is in earnest in wishing to develop herself into a fine specimen of womanhood, she must follow a few rules, which may be the text of her training. She can have them printed on the type-writer and hung up over her looking-glass, where she will be likely to see them often. They should include the following, and others may be added from time to time.

1. Sleep nine hours every night, beginning as early as 9.30 p.m. The beauty sleep is in the first part of the night. When thoroughly awake in the morning do not lounge in bed, but rise at once. Bathe first, or exercise before bathing as you prefer. In any case,

2. Take a sponge-bath every morning in water as it runs from the cold-water faucet. If you begin the practice in warm weather you will not notice the gradually lowered temperature of winter. Rub the skin well with a coarse towel until it is reddened. This will give you a fine sense of freshness, and prevent your catching cold easily.

3. Exercise for ten minutes at least before breakfast, if strong and hearty, in the way suggested later; if delicate, take five minutes' exercise, and the remainder two hours after breakfast or at five o'clock in the afternoon.

4. Wear no tight clothing of any kind. Tight bands about the limbs interfere with the circulation, change the natural curves of the part into ugly ones, and restrain the muscles unnaturally. About the waist, as a corset, they interfere with the lungs, with the stomach, and with other abdominal organs, and when all these are unnaturally cramped health and grace are impossible. The most graceful of actresses wear no stays, for they know that perfect ease and grace are impossible in tight clothing.

Also, if you would walk gracefully, never wear tight shoes, French heels, or pointed toes. The graceful Greek girl wore a broad sandal, and had the use of her toes, which our modern girls cannot have in the fashionable shoe, but which is essential for a dignified and graceful step.

5. Spend at least one hour out-of-doors every day in some form of exercise, and two or three whenever possible.

6. Use your mind actively in study for a few hours daily, for an idle mind is not a healthy one, but finish your studies at a definite hour, and then rest—i.e., play or exercise your body.

GOLF.

Some of the girls who may read this doubtless have the good fortune to be absolutely healthy, and perhaps their circumstances offer them all the exercise they need, although in city life this is improbable, and the healthiest will be benefited, kept in trim, physically, by following the rule for daily morning exercises.

But the girl who wishes to be strong and symmetrical often finds that in one way or another she needs a little help to straighten her shoulders, or to bring out her chest, or to give her an erect carriage; yet it is difficult for her to train herself, as she cannot see her own defects.

One device to aid self-instruction is the following: Take any old long mirror, and mark it with horizontal lines, about ten inches apart, in white chalk. The lines should be exactly straight. Then stand in front of this in your natural position, and notice whether the line of your shoulders agrees with the straight line across the mirror at their level. Probably you will see the reflection of a girl with one shoulder a little higher than the other, or perhaps standing unevenly, so that one hip is higher than the other. More than likely you will see that her chest is not full enough to make a fine figure. Perhaps the shoulders stoop a little, or possibly, while none of these defects are noticeable, the mirror shows a figure that needs only a little setting up, a more erect carriage, and the expression of a little more muscular energy, to make it satisfactory. A few special exercises that we shall add here will be excellent for all of these slight deviations from the normal; but it will be well to begin exercising every morning with two or three simple movements that will warm and limber the muscles and joints.

Begin by rising slowly on the toes and sinking back to the heels ten times. Then increase the speed, rising and falling quite rapidly twenty times, or more, if not fatigued. Then give the arm and shoulder-joint a chance. Swing the right arm out from the shoulder in a circle, and repeat this ten times. Then the left arm. After a week's practice use both arms fifteen times. Next use the trunk a little. Bend the body forward at the waist slowly as far as possible without bending the knees, and repeat this ten times. Next bend slowly to the right side without raising the left foot, and then to the left, each ten times.

Repeat the foot-raising rapidly five times, the arm-swinging and the body-bending five times each, and you will feel fresher already.

Now let us take a shoulder exercise. Take a one-pound dumbbell in each hand; face the mirror, standing firmly on both feet, with head erect and knees firm. Count one, strike the bells lightly against the thighs, with the palms turned in; on two, raise the arms to the sides, horizontally, shoulder high; and on three, stretch them backward as far as possible without lowering them, while the palms are turned forward. Hold them in this position a moment, then drop to the sides. Repeat this until slight fatigue is felt.

Exercise No, 2. Also for shoulders and back. Place both hands behind the neck, throwing the head and elbows back. Now bend stiffly forward from the waist, holding the body in that position for a moment. Rest a moment, and repeat this for a few times. If this is done properly it will be felt in the shoulder-blade region.

If fatigue is felt now, rest the upper muscles by skipping about the room. Use as many fancy steps as you can invent, or such as you may have learned in dancing-school or at the gymnasium.

Now take two or three movements for the chest. Take dumbbells, holding them down at the sides. On one, carry them forward in front, horizontally; on two, swing them back to shoulders with some force; on three, carry them straight up above the head, then back to the shoulders, horizontally; and on four, down again to the sides.

These movements can be done without dumbbells, but give a little more vigorous exercise with them.

Next take a breathing exercise. Hold arms at sides, palms forward. Inhale deeply and slowly with closed mouth, at the same time raising the arms slowly above the head, with the palms facing forward. Hold the breath with arms in this position for a moment, then slowly exhale it, lowering the arms slowly, as the breath goes out, until they reach the original positions at the sides. The elbows should be kept stiff all this time, and the palms facing forward. Repeat this slowly five times.

Another good breathing exercise may be taken with dumbbells. Hold the bells at the sides, waist high, palms up and elbows crooked. Then take a deep breath, and hold it while you swing the arms back vigorously past the hips, holding them in that position as long as you can retain the breath. The palms should face forward, and this position will throw out the upper chest finely. This movement should be repeated three or four times.

All of these movements should be taken in loose clothing, without corsets. If taken in the morning, they may be practised before the mirror in undress costume. At any time a loose waist is absolutely necessary.

Movements that keep the body balanced on the toes are good for grace and poise.

Such an exercise is walking on tiptoe on a narrow board about six inches high and thirty feet or more long, with arms extended wide, and a light weight on cushions balanced on the head. Such an exercise cultivates the spinal muscles, and helps to give the control over them that is necessary for a graceful and even carriage of the body.

Peasants in foreign countries, who carry baskets full of produce up and down hill, where walking is more difficult than on a level, are often noted for their graceful bearing, which is undoubtedly cultivated by this exercise.

What is called the deep-knee bend is another excellent balancing movement, and may be practised as follows: Stand erect, hands on hips. Rise on toes; then, bending the knees, sink down on the toes as far as possible, holding the upper part of the body erect. Rise and rest on the whole foot; then repeat. This is still more difficult if taken with arms held above the head, or sidewise, shoulder high.

When out-of-doors a girl should learn to climb nimbly and well, trying first on a low fence or a stout low tree. It is excellent practice, and gives her good control of herself. For the same reason practise climbing a ladder up and down, inside and outside. This is considered worthy of being taught in the gymnasium, and girls may well learn it at home in the country.

The practice and the courage it gives may some time save a girl's life, and to learn how to use one's body in every sort of position is a part of good training.

BASKET-BALL.

For the same reason girls should play ball or other games that cultivate dexterity and quick judgment, and that train the eye; and in the summer many such sports are open to them as well as to boys.

A girl should also practise running whenever possible, and learn to run in good form. It is an excellent exercise for the chest, and helps to cultivate physical endurance.

Very few girls run properly. In running the arms should be carried close to the sides, the elbows bent, and a rather long step taken, running on the ball of the foot. If new to the exercise, the first two or three trials should be made slowly and only for a short distance, perhaps the length of a city block. The speed, as well as the distance, may be gradually increased, always beginning and ending slowly, the highest speed being attained in the middle of the run.

In the country opportunities for this practice are numerous, but in town a gymnasium hall is the only opportunity that is always open.

Walking is indispensable for a girl who hopes for health and vigor, and training for this consists in beginning with moderation, but systematically, to walk short distances, gradually increasing the length of the excursion, until ordinary country jaunts and mountain climbs become easy and delightful matters.

Another exercise which is excellent for girls, and which is now being very widely indulged in by them, is bicycling. It is an excellent exercise if not overdone. Girls should remember when they first begin to ride that the muscles which are brought into play are not ready to stand the work which they may be able to perform after having been trained for some months. Therefore, only short rides of from four to five miles should be taken at the beginning, making the excursions a little longer week by week, but always stopping as soon as fatigue begins to be felt. Most girls will find that they can ride much farther, and with less fatigue, if they will rest for about fifteen minutes midway in their journey.

[THE CASTLE NEAR THE WINDOW-SEAT.]

BY CARLYLE SMITH.

There's a castle here near the window-seat, a castle made of wood,
Where dwells full many a wondrous wight, some very bad, some good.
On the tiptop floor lives Crusoe bold, and Mr. Gulliver, who
Once sailed afar on the broad salt sea; and there's Columbus too;
And next to them lives Robin Hood and all of his merry band,
With his little namesake Riding-hood, upon his strong right hand;
And funny old Don Quixote, too, lives 'way up there with these,
With his battered helmet on his head and tin caps on his knees.
On the lower floor is a fairy store—Titania and her fays,
And Brownies by the dozens who are pranking all their days;
And Cinderella lives near them, with her good old fairy friend,
And close to her Aladdin dwells with stores of gold to spend.
Hop-o'-my-Thumb lives up there too, and Jack with his bag of beans,
And Alice of the Looking-Glass, with her queer old fussy Queens;
And all the Barbers dwell therein, of the old Arabian Nights,
And strewn about are heroes of at least a thousand fights.
'Tis a wondrous band of persons grand that nursery castle holds;
With fearful beasts, and fearful birds, and witches too, and scolds;
And you'd almost think it would frighten me to know, when I go to bed,
That all these creatures live so close, almost at my very head.
But it doesn't, you see, for I am King, and I hold the castle keys;
Not one can stir from his settled place within unless I please.
And, after all, they are safe enough, in spite of their wicked looks,
For the castle walls of which I speak make the case where I keep my books.

[MARY KENT ON DECK.]

BY W. J. HENDERSON.

he bark Bunker Hill, of Boston, homeward bound from Rio Janeiro, was staggering across as wild a stretch of the north Atlantic as ever frightened the heart of man. She had left Rio in early October, with a wafting of gentle winds among the swelling curves of her snowy studding-sails, and had floated northward to the equator in a sea of lucent blue that looked as if it had never known how to frown. Once across the line, the Bunker Hill had run into the doldrums, and for ten long days had slatted the lax folds of her canvas against her tall yellow masts, until Captain Elisha Kent's heart turned sore and heavy within him. Then the northeast trades reached down into those latitudes, and the bark began to fight her way northward against a breeze that would not let her lie within four points of her course.

But at length, early in November, she was somewhere to the northward and eastward of Bermuda, when the barometer began to go down with a steady rush, and the wind died completely out. A sickening roll of mountainous swell set in from the southeast, and the sky hardened down to a callous unbroken gray. Captain Kent walked the quarter-deck with his daughter Mary, a brown-cheeked, healthy girl of sixteen. Every day Mary took a trick at the wheel, for she could steer a compass course as well as any fore-mast hand. Better still, she could work out a ship's dead-reckoning, and "shoot" the sun for latitude or longitude, as well as her father, who had taught her how.

"It's coming, lassie," he said to her, as they walked the reeling deck together.

"Yea, father, there's a storm down there somewhere," she answered.

"Well, I think we're as snug as we can be," he said, gazing aloft.

The morning and forenoon watches had been spent in preparing for the gale, and with extra lashings on everything movable about the deck, and the bark down to a close-reefed main-topsail, a shred of spanker, and a storm jib, Captain Kent and his pretty little mate felt that all that was possible had been done.

"I'd feel easier in my mind, though," said the Captain, "if one of my mates was able to be on deck."

"I know I'm only a girl, father," said Mary, "but I think I've been of some use to you on this voyage."

"Bless you, my girl," said the Captain; "you've been the greatest help in the world to me with your bright face and cheerful ways. But I don't think you can stand watch in a heavy gale, dear, and I'm worried for fear this one that's coming may outlast my strength."

"Then I'll tell you what I think you ought to do, father."

"And what's that, Mary?"

"The bark is snug, so you go and lie down now. See if you can't get two or three hours of sleep before the gale begins. I'll keep the deck, and call you at the first change in the weather."

The Captain looked at her thoughtfully for a moment, and remembered how thorough her sea-training had been. But she was so young!

"Well," he said, "I fancy there's some sense in your idea. Now pay attention."

"Yes, father."

"You see that particularly hard-looking spot down there in the southeast?"

"Do you mean where the clouds look so much like slate-pencil?"

"That's the place exactly. Now you keep your eye on that spot, because that's where I'm expecting the wind to come from. If that spot grows lighter, you call me at once."

"All right, father," said the girl; "you make your mind easy. I sha'n't lose sight of that spot."

"But at the same time, Mary," continued the Captain, "you mustn't neglect to keep a sharp lookout all around, for the wind may come from some unexpected quarter."

"Don't be afraid, father dear," said Mary, smiling up at him bravely; "you know I've been at sea before."

"Yes, my girl, I know; but you've never had quite so much responsibility on your shoulders. There, now, I'll go below and lie down just to please you."

Captain Kent paused a moment at the door of his cabin and shook his head.

"It's a strange thing to leave a young girl like that on watch at such a time, but what else can I do? She knows more in a minute than those muttonheads forward do in a month."

And with that thought in his mind the Captain went below and tried to snatch a brief rest before the coming of the storm. Mary, who was well accustomed to the wild movements of a vessel's deck, stood balanced with her shapely feet well apart and her hands clasped behind her back. With her knitted woollen cap pulled down over her ears, a big muffler around her neck, a heavy pea-jacket, and a plain skirt, she looked not unlike a picture of one of those old Dutch skippers that one sees in pictures of the days when the Netherlands were a power on the high-seas. The sharp frosty air made her cheeks as red as roses, and her brown eyes sparkled like stars. The man at the wheel, who had little enough to do in such a villanous calm beyond keeping the spokes from jumping, gazed at her in admiration, and the men forward nodded their heads approvingly at one another as they saw the Captain go below.

"Sorra's the weather we'll be afther havin' afoor noight," said Pat Maginn, "an' it's good the Cap'n goes to resht lavin' the foinist mate oi iver see on watch. But oi wish thim fellies that's sick beyant war on the deck too."

At four o'clock in the afternoon, just at the beginning of the first dog-watch, Mary saw a sudden glow of ghastly light in the hard spot in the southeast. Springing to the head of the companionway, she called down into the cabin:

"Father! Father! It's coming!"

The next moment Captain Kent hastened on deck, and after a quick glance said:

"Good, Mary, you caught it at the start. We'll have a capful of wind here presently, and a sea fit to swallow us before morning, for the centre of this storm is southwest of us, and we're on its worst side. We must get the bark hove to on the port tack."

A few moments later ragged patches of grayish-brown cloud began to fly over the bark, and then the wind burst upon her with a wild and terrifying shriek. It came fair over the starboard-quarter, and drove the Bunker Hill's lee rail level with the water; but under Captain Kent's orders the canvas was trimmed, the bark's head fell off, she wore round, and came up to the wind on the port tack. The ocean was blown out into a flat plain of boiling foam for a few minutes, but that state of things could not last long. Before five o'clock a tremendous sea was running, and the Bunker Hill was reeling through it like a crazy vessel.

Mary was already tired. She would not have confessed it, but she felt the strain of the long voyage, with its succession of nursing and service as assistant to her father. So she was glad enough to see him looking fresh, hearty, and reliant as he stood near the lee rail.

"Well, dear," he roared in her ear, "we are as snug as we can be, and you and I'd better go below and get a bite to eat."

The girl willingly accompanied her father to the cabin, where they made shift to get such a meal as the crazy swoops and lurches of the vessel allowed. They had hardly finished when there was a report like a cannon-shot, and one of the men bawled down,

"The main-tops'l's gone, sir."

"Stay you here, Mary," said the Captain, as he sprang up the steps to the deck.

Mary heard his strong voice shouting orders that rang above the roaring of the gale. Then there was a confusion of cries forward and the crash of tons of water falling on the forecastle deck. Mary knew that the bark had shipped a great wave, and she felt instinctively that something had happened. She rushed on deck. The lee scuppers were running off water in great spouts, and the deck forward was littered with disarranged rigging. But that was not what terrified Mary. She saw her father half lying and half leaning against the lee rail, apparently in an agony of pain.

"Father! father!" she cried, as she ran to his side, "what is the matter?"

"A thump—in the ribs," he gasped. "I guess—something's broken."

For an instant the girl's courage faltered, and she felt as if she would faint; but her innate strength of character supported her.

"Something must be done for him at once," she said to herself, as she called to some of the men to come and help her. They picked the Captain up and carried him to his cabin, where they laid him gently on a cushioned locker.

"What on earth'll—we do—now?" gasped the Captain. "I'm laid out—for the rest—of the voyage."

"Oh no, father," said Mary, with a cheerfulness that she did not feel; "you'll be all right again before this gale is over, and we'll pull the Bunker Hill through that all right. Won't we, men?"

"Ay, ay, miss; that we will."

"God bless you, my child," gasped the Captain; "and you too, men; but—I've got two—broken ribs here."

They were all silent for a few minutes, while the cabin reeled from side to side, and the hollows of the vessel were full of groans from the straining of her timbers.

"Father," said Mary at length, "don't worry about the bark, anyhow. You've got a good crew, and they'll take care of the bark."

"Yes, sir, Cap'n Kent," said one of the men; "we're mortal sorry for to see you done up, sir, for you've treated us good, an' we knows it."

"Thank you—men," said the Captain, and then he fainted. Mary sent the men on deck, and with the assistance of the cook put her father in his bunk, where he presently recovered his consciousness, but was still in great pain. Mary sat beside him in deep thought.

"Dare I do it?" she said to herself. "I am so young; yet I am not inexperienced, and something must be done. Half the crew and the mates down with berri-berri, and the Captain disabled; the bark must be— I'll do it."

"What are you—thinking about, Mary?" asked her father.

"This. We must make for the nearest port that you may have proper medical attention, father, and we must do it the minute the gale moderates enough to let us clap more cloth on the bark. The barometer is rising, and the wind has shifted four points. The gale will break by morning. We are on the outside edge of it, and we'll soon be out of it. Now, father, put me in command of the bark, and I'll take her into New York."

"But will the crew—obey you?"

"Ask them."

Mary went on deck and asked the men, except the helmsman, to come to the cabin.

"Men," she said, "the Captain is hurt, the mates and half the crew are sick. The bark ought to go to the nearest port. I can take her there. Will you help me? What do you say?"

"That you're right, miss," said one of the men. "And we'll take our orders from you same as from the Cap'n. Won't we, lads?"

"Yes, yes!"

"Now, father," said Mary.

"I turn over—the command—to you, dear," said the Captain.

The next day at noon the gale had moderated to a fresh breeze, and though a heavy sea was running, the clouds had broken and the sun was peeping through. Mary went on deck with the sextant to get the ship's latitude. She poised herself on her graceful limbs, and handled the instrument like a veteran. Presently she got the sun's highest altitude.

"Make eight bells!" she cried.

"Ay, ay, sir—I mean, ma'am!" cried one of the men forward as he sprang to obey the order.

Mary went below and worked out her reckoning, while her father eyed her lovingly as she thumbed the navigation tables and the nautical almanac.

"It's three hundred and thirty miles west nor'west to Sandy Hook, father. The wind is sou' sou'west, and we can lay our course."

The Captain smiled faintly, for he was in much pain, and murmured, "Bless you!"

"ALL HANDS MAKE SAIL!"

Mary went on deck and shouted, "All hands make sail!"

Every able man in the crew, including the cook, sprang on deck with the activity of cats, eager to show their willingness to serve her. The bark was still under the flying-jib, maintopmast stay-sail and reefed spanker which she had carried through the end of the gale. The men were anxious to know how their young skipperess would go to work. The girl's face was calm and confident. Her cheeks glowed and her eyes burned. In a clear musical voice she cried:

"Shake out the reefs in the spanker! Hoist the jib and haul out the spanker!"

As soon as these orders were executed she cried again, "Loose the foretop-sail and maintop-gallant sail!"

The men danced aloft to attend to these orders.

"Stand by! Let fall! Sheet home and hoist away!"

The men flew about like bees.

"That's sail enough till the sea goes down," she said. "Brace sharp up and haul out the tacks! West nor'west," she added to the man at the wheel.

"Three cheers for Miss Captain Kent!" cried one of the men, and they were given with a will. Two days later the bark Bunker Hill went up the Swash Channel behind a tug, and dropped anchor off Quarantine, where the ship-news reporters learned of her remarkable story and filled the papers with Mary's fame. In the following summer Mary was granted a master's license, and when Captain Kent went to rest in the old churchyard, his daughter took command of his ship, and was one of the few women sea-captains in the world.

[RICK DALE.]

BY KIRK MUNROE,

Author of "Snow-shoes and Sledges," "The Fur-Seal's Tooth," "The 'Mate' Series," "Flamingo Feather," etc.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

LAID UP FOR REPAIRS.

bout the time when Alaric was pleasantly travelling with his mother through Germany, Hans Altman, with Gretchen, his wife, and Eittel, his little daughter, dwelt in a valley of the Harz Mountains. Although Hans was a poor man, he found plenty of work with which to support his family in comfort, but he could never forget that his father had been a burgomeister, and much better off in this world's goods than he. Thinking of this made him discontented and unhappy, until finally he determined to sell what little they had and come to America, or, as he called it, "the land of gold," with the hope of bettering his fortunes. In vain did Gretchen protest that nowhere in the world could they be so happy or so well off as in their own land and among their own people. Even her tears failed to turn him from his purpose. So they came to this country, and at length drifted to the far-away shores of Puget Sound, where they stranded, wellnigh penniless, ignorant of the language and customs of those about them, helpless and forlorn. With the distress of mind caused by this state of affairs Hans grew melancholy and irritable, and when Eittel died he declared that he himself had killed her. The faithful Gretchen soon followed her little daughter, and with this terrible blow the poor man's mind gave way entirely. He not only fancied himself a murderer, but believed officers of the law to be in pursuit of him, and that if captured he would be hanged.

Filled with this idea, he fled on the very night of his wife's death, and having been born among mountains, now instinctively sought in them a place of refuge. He carried an axe with him, and somewhere procured a ride with a plentiful supply of ammunition. Through the vast forest he made his way far from the haunts of men, ever climbing higher and penetrating more deeply among the friendly mountains, until finally he reached a tiny valley, in which he believed himself safe from pursuit. Here he built a rude hut, and became a hunter of mountain-goats. Their flesh furnished him with food, their skins with bedding and clothing, while from their horns he carved many a rude utensil.

In this way he had lived for nearly two months, when our lost and sorely perplexed lads stumbled upon his camp, and found in it a haven of safety. In the peaceful quiet of those mountain solitudes the poor man had become calmly content with his primitive mode of life, and was even happy as he recalled how skilfully he had eluded a fancied pursuit, and how impossible it had now become for those who sought his life to discover his retreat.

It was in this frame of mind that, on returning from a long day's hunt with the body of a goat slung across his back, he saw, to his dismay, that his hiding-place had been found, and that his camp was occupied by strangers. Of course they were enemies who were now waiting to kill him. He would fly so fast and so far that they could never follow. No; better than that, he would kill them before they were even aware of his presence. This was a grand idea, and the madman chuckled softly to himself as it came to him. Laying his dead goat on the ground, and whispering to it not to be afraid, for he would soon return, the man crept stealthily forward toward the fire-light. At length he spied the form of what he believed to be one of his pursuers, sitting half hid in the shadows, and doubtless waiting for him. Ha! ha! How disappointed that enemy would be when he found himself dead! and with a silent chuckle the madman slowly lifted his rifle.

At that terrible moment the notes of Alaric's song were borne to him on the still night air, and then came the words, "Muss i denn, muss i denn ... und du, mein Schatz, bleibst hier." It was his Gretchen's song, and those were the very words she had sung to him so often in their happy Harz Valley home. The uplifted arm dropped as though palsied, and like one who hears a voice from the dead the man uttered a mighty cry of mingled fear and longing; at the same moment he stepped into the full glare of fire-light, and confronted Alaric, at whom he poured a torrent of questions in German.

"Who are you? How came you here? What do you want? Have you seen my Gretchen? Where did you learn to sing 'Muss i denn'?"

"In Germany, of course, where everybody sings it," replied Alaric, answering the last question first, and speaking in the man's own language. "And I didn't think you would mind if we took possession of your camp until your return; for you see we are in great trouble."

"Ach no! All who are in trouble should come with me; for I too have many, many troubles," replied the man, his blue eyes losing their fierce look and filling with tears. "But I never meant to do it. Gott in Himmel knows I never meant to do it."

"Of course not," said Alaric, soothingly, anxious to quiet the man's agitation, and suspecting that his mind was not quite right. "Nobody thinks you did."

"Yes, they do, the cruel men who would kill me; but you will stay and drive them away if they come, will you not? You will be my friend—you, to whom I can talk with the tongue of the father-land?"

"Certainly I will stay and be your friend, if you will help me care for another friend who lies yonder very ill."

"Ja! ja! I will help you if you will stay and talk to me of Gretchen, and sing to me 'Muss i denn.'"

"Very good," agreed Alaric. "It is, then, a contract between us." At the same time he said to himself: "He is a mighty queer-looking chap to have for a friend; but I suppose there are worse, and I guess I can manage him. It's a lucky thing I know a little German, though, for he looked fierce enough to kill me until I began to talk with him."

The appearance of the man was certainly calculated to inspire uneasiness, especially when taken in connection with his incoherent words. He was an immense fellow with shaggy hair and untrimmed heard. On his head was perched a ridiculous little cloth cap, while over his shoulders was flung a cloak of goat-skins that added greatly to his appearance of size and general shagginess. His lower limbs were covered with leggings of the same hairy material. His ordinary expression was the fierce look of a hunted animal, but now it was softened by the rare pleasure of meeting one who could talk with him in his own language.

From that first moment of strange introduction his eagerness to be with Alaric and induce him to talk was pathetic. To him he poured out all his sorrows, together with daily protests that he never meant to kill his Gretchen and little Eittel. For the sake of this companionship he was willing to do anything that might add to the comfort of his guests. He scoured forest and mountain-side in search of game, and rarely returned empty-handed. He fetched amazing loads of wood on his back, went on long expeditions after berries, set cunningly devised snares for ptarmigan, and found ample recompense for all his labor in lying at full length before the camp-fire at night and talking with Alaric. Bonny he mistrusted as being one who could speak no German, and only bore with him for the sake of his friend.

Nor was he greatly liked by the lad, whose injuries compelled a long acceptance of his hospitality. "I know he's good to us, and won't let you do any work that he can help, and all that," Bonny would say; "but somehow I can't trust him nor like him. He'll play us some mean trick yet; see if he don't."

"But he saved our lives; for if we hadn't found his camp we should certainly have starved to death."

"That's just it! We found his camp. He didn't find us, and never would have. Anyhow, he's as crazy as a loon, and will bear a heap of watching."

For all this, Bonny did not allow his anxiety to interfere with a speedy recovery from his injuries, and by the aid of youthful vigor, a splendid constitution, complete rest, plenty of food, and the glorious mountain air, his broken bones knit so rapidly that in one month's time he declared himself to be mended and as good as new.

The boys often talked of M. Filbert, and wondered what had become of him. At first Alaric made an earnest effort to induce Hans Altman to go in search of the Frenchman's camp and notify him of their safety; but the German became so excitedly angry at the mere mention of such a thing that he was forced to relinquish the idea.

Their strange host became equally angry at any mention of their leaving him, and refused to give any information concerning their present locality or the nearest point at which other human beings might be found. Nor did he ever evince the least curiosity as to where they had come from. It was enough for him that they were there.

When the time for them to depart drew near, Alaric made another effort to gain some information from the German that would guide their movements, but in vain. He only succeeded in arousing the man's suspicions to such an extent that he grew morose, would not leave camp unless Alaric went with him, and watched furtively every movement that the boys made.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

CHASED BY A MADMAN.

Bonny's bed was nearest the side of the hut, while Alaric lay beyond him towards its centre. Morning was breaking when the former awoke from a troubled dream, so filled with a presentiment of impending evil that his forehead was bathed in a cold perspiration. For the space of a minute he lay motionless, striving to reassure himself that his terror was without foundation. All at once he became conscious that some one was talking in a low tone, and, glancing in that direction, saw the form of their host, magnified by the dim light into gigantic proportions, bending over Alaric. The man held an uplifted knife, and was muttering to himself in German; but at Bonny's cry of horror he leaped to his feet, and disappeared through the doorway.

"What is the matter?" asked Alaric, sleepily, only half awakened by Bonny's cry. "Been having bad dreams?"

"Yes, and a worse reality," answered the other, huskily. "Oh, Rick! he was going to kill you, and if I hadn't waked when I did we should both have been dead by this time. He has made up his mind to murder us, I know he has."

A minute later Alaric had heard the whole story, and, as excited as Bonny himself, was hurriedly slipping on his coat and boots. They knew not which way to go, nor what to do, but both were eager to escape from the hut into the open, where they might at least have a chance to run in case of an attack.

As they emerged from the doorway, casting apprehensive glances in every direction, Alaric's baseball, that had been left in one of his coat pockets the evening before, slipped through a hole in the lining and fell to the ground. Hardly conscious of what he was doing, the lad stooped to pick it up. At that same instant came the sharp crack of a rifle, and the "ping" of a bullet that whistled just above his head.

"He is shooting at us!" gasped Bonny. "Come, quick, before he can reload."

Without another word the lads dashed into the clump of trees sheltering the camp, and down the slope on which it stood. They would have preferred going the other way but the rifle-shot had come from that direction, and so they had no choice. Their movements being at first concealed by the timber, there was no sign of pursuit until they gained the open valley and started to cross it. Then came a wild yell from behind, and they knew that their flight was discovered.

Breathlessly they sped through the dewy meadow, sadly impeded by its rank growth of grass and flowers, toward a narrow exit through the wall bounding its lower end that Alaric had long ago discovered. Through this a brawling stream made its way, and by means of its foaming channel the boys hoped to effect an escape.

As they gained the rocky portal Bonny glanced back and uttered a cry of dismay, for their late host was in plain view, leaping down the slope toward the meadow they had just crossed. He was then bent on overtaking them, and the pursuit had begun in earnest.

As there was no pathway besides that offered by the bed of the stream, they were forced to plunge into its icy torrent and follow its tumultuous course over slippery rocks, through occasional still pools whose waters often reached to the waist, and down foaming cascades, with a reckless disregard for life or limb. In this manner they descended several hundred feet, and when from the bottom they looked up over the way they had come they felt that they must surely have been upborne by wings. But there was no time for contemplation, for at that moment a plunging bowlder from above warned them that their pursuer was already in the channel.

Now they were in a forest, not of the giant trees they would find at a lower altitude, but one of tall hemlocks and Alpine firs, growing with such density that the panting fugitives could with difficulty force a way between them. They stumbled over prostrate trunks, slipped on beds of damp mosses, were clutched by woody fingers, from whose hold their clothing was torn with many a grievous rent; and, with all their efforts, made such slow progress that they momentarily expected to be overtaken. Nor were their fears groundless, for they had not gone half a mile ere a crashing behind them told that their pursuer was close at hand. As they exchanged a despairing glance, Bonny said, "The only thing we can do is to hide; for I can't run any further."

"Where?" asked Alaric.

"Here," replied Bonny, diving as he spoke into a bed of ferns. Alaric followed, and as they flattened themselves to the ground, barely concealed by the green tips nodding above their backs, the madman leaped into the space they had just vacated, and stood so close to them that they could have reached out and touched him. His cap had disappeared, his hair streamed over his shoulders like a tawny mane; his clothing was torn, a scratch had streaked his face with blood, and his deep-set eyes shone with the wild light of insanity. He had flung away his rifle; but his right hand clutched a knife, keen, and long-bladed. The crouching lads held their breaths as he paused for an instant beside them. Then, uttering a snarling cry, he dashed on, and with cautiously lifted heads they watched him out of sight.

"Whew!" ejaculated Bonny, "that was a close call. But I say, Rick, this business of running away and being chased seems quite like old times, don't it?"

"Yes," answered Alaric, with a shuddering sigh of mingled relief and apprehension, "it certainly does, and this is the worst of all. But what shall we do now?"

"I don't know of anything else but to keep right on down hill after going far enough to one side to give his course a wide berth. I'd like awfully to have some breakfast, but I wouldn't go back to that camp for it if it were the only place in the world. I'd about as soon starve as eat another mouthful of goat, anyway. We are sure to come out somewhere, though, if we only stick to a downward course long enough."

So the boys bore to the right, and within a few minutes had the satisfaction of noting certain gleamings through the trees that betokened some kind of an opening. Guided by these, they soon came to a ridge of bowlders and gravel, forming one of the lateral moraines of a glacier that lay in glistening whiteness beyond.

"We might as well follow along its edge," suggested Bonny; "for all these glaciers seem to run down hill, and, bad as the walking is over mud and rocks, we can make better time here than through the woods."

THEY WERE PARALYZED WITH TERROR TO SEE THE MADMAN GRINNING HORRIBLY.

They had not gone more than a mile in this fashion, and believing that they had successfully eluded their pursuer, were rapidly recovering from their recent fright, when they were startled by a cry like that of a wild beast close at hand. Glancing up, they were nearly paralyzed with terror to see the madman grinning horribly with delight at having discovered them, and about to rush down the steep slope to where they stood.

There was but an instant of hesitation, and then both lads sprang out on the rugged surface of the glacier, and made a dash for its far-away opposite side.

They ran, slipped, stumbled, took flying leaps over the parted white lips of narrow crevasses, and made detours to avoid such as were too wide to be thus spanned. They had no time to look behind, nor any need. The fierce cries of the madman warned them that he was in hot pursuit and ever drawing nearer. At one place the ice rang hollow beneath their feet, and they even fancied that it gave an ominous crack; but they could not pause to speculate as to its condition. That it was behind them was enough.

Ere half the distance was passed they were drawing their breath with panting sobs, and Bonny, not yet wholly recovered from his illness, began to lag behind. Noting this, Alaric also slackened his speed; but his comrade gasped: "No, Rick. Don't stop. Save yourself. I'm done for. You can't help me. Good-by."

Thus saying, and too exhausted to run further, the lad faced about to meet their terrible pursuer, and struggle with him for a delay that might aid the escape of his friend. To his amazement, there was no pursuer, nor in all that white expanse was there a human being to be seen save themselves.

At his comrade's despairing words Alaric too had turned, with the determination of sharing his fate; so they now stood side by side breathing heavily, and gazing about them in wondering silence.

"What has become of him?" asked Bonny at length, in an awed tone, but little above a whisper.

"I don't know," replied Alaric. "He can't have gone back, for there hasn't been time. He can't be in hiding, for there is no place in which he could conceal himself, nor have we passed any crevasse that he could not leap. But, if he has slipped into one! Oh, Bonny! it is too awful to think of!"

"I heard him only a few seconds ago," said Bonny, in the same awed tone, "and his voice sounded so close that with each instant I expected to be in his clutches."

"Bonny," exclaimed Alaric, "do you remember a place that sounded hollow?"

"Yes."

"We must go back to it; for I believe he has broken through. If it is in our power to help him we must do it; if not, we must know what has happened."

They had to retrace their steps but a few yards before coming to a fathomless opening with jagged sides and splintered edges, where the thin ice that had afforded them a safe passage had given way beneath the heavier weight of their pursuer. No sound save that of rushing waters came from the cruel depths, nor was there any sign.

The boys lingered irresolutely about the place for a few minutes, and then fled from it as from an impending terror.

For the remainder of that day, though no longer in dread of pursuit, they made what speed they might down the mountain-side, following rough river-beds, threading belts of mighty forest, climbing steep slopes, and descending others into narrow valleys.

The sun was near his setting, and our lads were so nigh exhausted that they had seated themselves on a moss-covered log to rest, when they were startled by a heavy rending crash that echoed through the listening forest with a roar like distant thunder.

The boys looked at each other, and then at what bits of sky they could see through the far-away tree-tops. It was of unclouded blue, and the sun was still shining.

"Rick!" cried Bonny, starting to his feet. "I believe it was a falling tree."

"Well?"

"I mean one that was made to fall by axe and saw."

"Oh, Bonny!" was all that Alaric could reply; but in another instant he was leading the way through tall ferns and along the stately forest aisles in the direction from which had come the mighty crash.

[to be continued.]

[A NEW WATER ROUTE TO CENTRAL AFRICA.]

BY CYRUS C. ADAMS.

ny man who reveals to the world a great river on which steamboats can ply for hundreds of miles is a benefactor, and his name will be recorded among important explorers. Dr. Ludwig Wolf, in 1886, found a new water route to central Africa, and in all the good work he did until his death he never won a greater prize. Dr. Wolf loved the big continent, and he said that in all his life in Africa he never experienced such almost insupportable heat as he endured in Philadelphia during the Centennial Exposition. But he was convinced that women from the temperate zones should not try to live in tropical Africa, and believed that white men who spend their lives there should humanely renounce the idea of taking wives from their own race, and should marry women who were born in tropical countries.

Dr. Wolf's little steamer puffed up the big Sankuru River, threading its way among many islands, and revealing a great new highway and many unaccustomed sights. One day Dr. Wolf was astounded to see, some ways up the river, what appeared to be a raging snow-storm. Of course snow never falls there, but the illusion was perfect. It was caused by myriads of white butterflies zigzagging through the air. Two or three years later a black boy named Pitti, who had been taken from his home on this river to Germany, came rushing to his friends, exclaiming; "Oh, look out of the window! The air is full of butterflies." It was snowing hard. You see, the first impressions both of the learned doctor and of the ignorant little black boy were erroneous, because neither of them was in a country that he knew very well. You will see on your map that the great northern bend of the Congo is like a bent bow, and far below it is the string of the bow—the Sankuru—pieced out at one end by the Kassai River, which unites it with the Congo, while the other end stretches far across, almost to the other end of the bow. Dr. Wolf's discovery added almost 800 miles of navigable waters to the Congo basin, stretching almost due east to central Africa. Many a boy who loves adventure would think it a proud honor to add so important a fact to geographic knowledge, but I wonder how many boys would be willing to pay the great price that Dr. Wolf and all the pioneer explorers have had to pay for the discoveries that made them famous.

How would you like to be among hostile natives, many hundreds of miles from the nearest white settlement, with no means of transportation except a wheezy little steamboat that was likely to blow up or break down beyond repair at any moment? The worn-out En Avant, which carried Dr. Wolf's little party, was tired all the time, and incessantly on the verge of giving up entirely. There was no machinist on board to coax the complaining engine into good humor. The boiler-plates were sprung, and every morning the cracks were plastered over with a fresh layer of clay. Some of the tubing and the furnace grates gave out, and the doctor mournfully sacrificed gun-barrels from his slender stock of fire-arms to replace the worn-out parts. Of course, he would have repaired his rickety little steamer before he started if he had had anything with which to patch it up. With everything right at our hand at home, we have little idea of the countless perplexities that beset the explorer. Some years ago the French carried a steamboat in sections, at great cost, to the bank of a river in the French Congo, where they wished to launch it, and there the vessel lay uselessly on the shore for more than a year, because they had lost one little package that had to be replaced from Europe before a fire could be kindled under the boiler. Dr. Wolf was not able to move up stream as fast as a land party would have travelled; and around sharp bends in the river, under full pressure of steam, he was often two hours in making 700 feet against the rapid current.

Until he had ascended far towards the sources of the river, he found the Sankuru a noble stream, one to two miles in width; and, curiously enough, the natives on the north bank were very hostile, while those living south of the river were perfectly friendly and hospitable. The wide river was a boundary between peoples who differed from each other in many respects. This has often been observed in savage lands. On the middle Congo, where the river for long stretches is from fifteen to twenty miles wide and crowded with islands, there are thousands of natives who, until recently, had never seen the opposite shore nor the people who live there.

"STOP! DON'T SHOOT!"

Soon after the explorer entered the Sankuru he had an adventure with the hostile natives of the north shore that a little resembled the fabled story of Pocahontas and Captain John Smith. The doctor was steaming along about twenty feet from the bank, when he saw a girl, wearing ornaments that showed she was the daughter of a chief, leaping through the grass towards the water and shouting:

"Stop, you fools! Don't shoot! Let them go! They will not harm you!"

Dr. Wolf took in the situation in an instant. He saw a party of Bassongo-Mino crouching in the herbage at the water's edge, their bowstrings drawn, all ready to launch the arrows. The girl sprang in among them and knocked the bow and arrow from the hands of the man nearest to her. She cowed the men with her loud upbraidings, and they lowered their weapons as the steamer swept past. There is little doubt that her word of command, spoken in behalf of white strangers, the like of whom she had never seen before, saved the lives of some of Dr. Wolf's party. Perhaps she knew how grateful they were for her humane and friendly act, though they had no opportunity to express their gratitude.

Sometimes the more important women among these barbarous tribes exert great influence. At another place on the Sankuru Dr. Wolf thanked his lucky stars that a woman took his part. He had stopped in front of a large settlement and tried to make friends with the people. They made no answer, but sprang to their weapons and advanced to attack him. Among the foremost suddenly appeared a girl named Pemba, the daughter of the most powerful chief in all that region. With a few words and a wave of her hand she stilled the angry tumult. She had never seen white men before, but she called to them to wait. She ordered some ivory and native grass cloth to be put into a boat, and, perfectly fearless, she went out to the strangers, had a good talk with them through the interpreter, received beads, brass wire, and cotton cloth for her commodities, and when the paddle-wheels began to revolve the boat was loaded with food bought of the natives, who at first had only arrows for the visitors. Through the influence of this girl, the explorer escaped an attack from the most powerful tribe along the river.

HE LOOKED AT A GUN WITH GREAT CURIOSITY.

For a long distance the hostile tribes were found to speak practically the same language, and Dr. Wolf's interpreter was the most important person on the boat. The natives thought the strangers could not understand them, and so they freely talked of their plans for attacking them. One day, when Dr. Wolf stopped to repair the En Avant, natives armed with bows and arrows speedily surrounded the steamer. They were not a bit afraid, and drew right up alongside. Their chief, Tongolata, told his warriors that these strangers were entirely at his mercy. Why, he couldn't see a single weapon among them! He looked at a gun with great curiosity. "Whatever the thing is," he finally declared, "it is not a weapon." He told his people it would be easy enough to kill these folks and seize all the strange and beautiful things they were showing. Things were beginning to look squally. More canoes were coming every minute. Dr. Wolf was a man of peace, and would not take a human life unless it was necessary to save his own men. But he must do something to over-awe these savages. He showed the chief a revolver, and told him it carried lightning that killed men. Then he held the weapon so that its discharge would hurt no one, but the barrel was close to the King's ear. He pulled the trigger, and the chief fell to the bottom of his boat, stunned by the terrible noise. All the natives were stupefied with astonishment and fear. The chief held on to both his ears until he decided that he was not hurt, and then he declared that he was the white man's good brother, and honored his new friend with a present of two chickens. Some explorers—very few, it is hoped—would have fired into the crowd under such circumstances. But men who are fit to be trusted among barbarous peoples have very often been able to insure safety when danger threatened by some such expedient as that which Dr. Wolf adopted.

The actions of some of these tribes when they first caught sight of the wonderful "fire-canoe" were very curious. The Bena-Jehka, for instance, threw themselves on the ground—not in fear, however, for they greeted the coming vessel with a hearty clapping of hands. The friendly natives were greatly tickled to find that this puffing boat was no match in a race with their canoes. They could travel all around her; and no wonder, for some of their dugouts were nearly ninety feet long—twice the length of the En Avant—and eighty paddlers standing erect in the larger boats made them fairly skim through the water. Sometimes fifty of these canoes were darting here and there, playing tag with the slow steamer, and dodging her every time. It was great sport for the friendly natives of the south bank, and the hostiles across the river did not know how much fun they were missing. None of these people had ever heard of a gun.

The African telephone was busy, as the steamer advanced, carrying the news up the river. The deep notes of the big drum, or tomtom, are the signal of great events in those parts, and crowds flocked to the banks long before the vessel puffed into view, straining their eyes for the first glimpse of anything wonderful or menacing. These signals, however, do not compare with the ingenious system perfected by a few small tribes in the Cameroons, West Africa, where the sounds on the drum represent syllables and words, and so grow into sentences, like the ticks of a telegraph instrument. Only about two hundred natives have been instructed in the art, and the secret is so carefully guarded that no white man is yet able to interpret these drum-beats, which carry verbal messages from one drummer to another as fast as sound travels.

Far up the river Dr. Wolf discovered some remarkable houses built in the branches of trees. Many African tribes, like the people of New Guinea and the Solomon Islands, in the Pacific, build platforms high up in the trees, so that their lookouts may quickly discover the approach of an enemy, or their women and children take refuge among the branches in time of danger. An invention of the white men is destroying this custom of building tree refuges, and you can easily guess what it is. Traders have introduced many guns among the natives, and the women find that their rude perches in the air are no protection against bullets. But the tree houses Dr. Wolf saw serve a different purpose. The natives live in them to keep out of the wet when the land is flooded. A platform is firmly lodged in the widest fork of a tree, and a roof is built on the top of uprights that rest on the platform. The boys and girls are a happy lot when the floods subside and they can press the ground again with their bare feet.

It was a joyous lot of black men whom Dr. Wolf restored to their homes in Angola, after they had served him well for many months while he was adding this river to the maps. But on the way home they had one serious disappointment. One day they saw a group of baobab-trees, the largest plant that grows in Africa. It was many a day since they had seen the familiar sight. "Hurrah!" they cried; "we are near the sea. We are in Angola again." But they were still far from Angola.

These humble negroes helped to prepare the way for the busy white stations that are now planted on the Sankuru's banks. They should have their share of credit for the good work that was done.

[GAMES IN THE REAL COUNTRY.]

BY JNO. GILMER SPEED.

The boys in the cities, and especially in the suburban towns, have a very much gayer time than their fathers did twenty years ago. When a man of middle age now visits his old college, or, indeed, any athletic field, the fact is impressed upon him with great and ever-increasing force that he was born two score years too soon. In my boyhood, which was not so very long ago, town ball on the commons and baseball on a rough and unprepared field were about the only games of a general nature that we had. Of course there was a brief season for shinney, a little while for marbles, and in the hottest weather of midsummer we languidly indulged in mumble-the-peg. But we had no athletic fields in the sense that they exist to-day for general sports, while the fascinating tennis had not been introduced, and football as it is played to-day was unknown. We were therefore, judging by present-day standards, pretty badly off.

By the real country I mean those sections where the boys live on farms or in villages not influenced by close contact with the people from large cities. In such places, and I am writing in such a place, the boys do not seem to have a very gay time; but as they do not know that their sports so impress an on-looker, they are not unhappy about the matter. Just across the village street from the house in which I write is the village school (Academy it is called in high-sounding phrase), and the play-ground about it is bare in some spots, high grown with weeds in others, while great stones and small lie around in an abundance that menaces the security of every step a fast-running urchin takes. The boys on one side of the yard are playing baseball at this moment, and on the other side the girls, with shrill cries that express all at once delight, apprehension, and downright fear, are playing prisoner's-base. The boys do not have a "diamond" for their game, but the field is laid out in an irregular way that must have been determined partly by chance and somewhat by necessity. The pitcher stands a few feet in front of a maple-tree, and the catcher is so close to a rail fence that every passed ball goes into the ploughed field beyond. The ball is so frequently lost in this field and in the weeds in the school-yard that quite half the time of the game is spent in searching for it. The bats are clumsy things, that seem too heavy for the youngsters to wield with ease and accuracy; but as the pitching is not fast the batters succeed in hitting the ball as often as they miss it. And every time there is a hit there is a mighty scrambling in every part of the field, as the right-fielder appears to think it his duty to cover third base, and the first-base man displays an ambition to capture flies in the left field. The smaller the score, I believe, in both the professional and amateur worlds, the better the game. But in the baseball games in the real country the opposite is held to be true, and if less than twenty runs on a side are made the game is counted to have been a failure.

These games at the Academy are not played continuously, but begin before school in the morning, then at morning recess, then during the dinner hour, and are finished in the afternoon recess. After school, with whoops and cries of divers sorts the youngsters disperse to their homes, some of which are miles away. Several years ago they all walked home, but now the majority of them go to and fro on bicycles. In watching my neighbors of the school and their goings and comings I have discovered where the discarded bicycles that have gone out of fashion in town disappear to. They are taken to the country, and there the lads in the cowhide boots in winter and bare feet in summer pedal them up hill and down, alike ignorant of and indifferent to the fact that their much-cherished wheels are out of style.

The games the real country boys play are few, and would not be exciting to the lads who exercise on the Berkeley Oval; but they are entirely wholesome and harmless, and serve just as good a purpose as they would if they were in what more sophisticated people call good form. Fun is, to a great extent, a matter of education, and the same standard will not serve to measure the amusements of all classes alike. This is a most fortunate fact; and when I consider it I doubt whether in my own youth I may not, after all, have had in my limited range as much genuine sport as the lads I see in my neighbors' lawns, throwing off their gayly striped blazers preparatory to trying their skill in the tennis-court that has just been marked out.

[THE DAISIES.]

BY JOHN VANCE CHENEY.

Daisies, once, in noonday dream,
Heard I gossip by a stream,
Secrecies too sweet to name;
'Mong them, daisies, how you came
By your shining skyey faces,
Where you learned these magic paces.
On a night, far, far away,
Certain stars that loved to play
In the pond across the way,
At a signal—so they say—
Put their beams out; what is more,
One by one they slipped ashore.
When their mates look from the sky.
Now we know why every eye,
Up and down this fairy ground,
Plays go-sleepin' oh, so sound!
Eyes and hearts of summer day,
Daisies, you have run away.